“Well, yeah, unless there’s a penalty.”
“Right. But there aren’t any penalties in math. And the equals sign? It’s like the center line, okay? You need the same number of players on each side. Look at this problem again.” I tap the page at 2X + 5 = 11. “Whatever happens to one team also has to happen to the other one. So, what if I took these five players away from the left side?”
Charlie frowns down at the test. “You better take five away from the right side.”
“Yes.” I cross out the “5” and then write “-5” on the other side. “Now how many players remain for righty?”
“Six,” he says easily, and we’re left with 2X = 6.
I write that down. “Now here’s the thing—I want you to think of X as a player with a blank jersey on. He’s, like, wearing a disguise, and we have to move the other players around until we can figure out who he is. That’s all a variable is—a guy in a blank jersey.”
Charlie chews his lip. “So who is he?”
“Let’s try the same trick one more time. If we divide 2X by two…”
“Then you have to do it again over here.” He points at the other side of the equation.
I push the test in his direction. “You do it.”
Charlie divides each side by two.
“Great!” I say, relieved. “So now who is X?”
“Uh, three?”
“YES!” I shout. “Go on. Do another one. How about this one down here?”
“That one looks hard. Is Y the same as X?”
“Yup, just another imposter. Treat him the same. You got this.”
And he does. It’s all going great until the door suddenly opens.
Twenty-Five
Uh, Hi.
Forest
I drive home in the worst mood. The rental car I’m driving is already eating into my inadequate savings, and I’m about to confront a hungry kid about math homework. Also, I’m giving myself whiplash about whether asking Beck for a favor was a great idea or an asshole move.
When I pull into my driveway, Beck’s Jeep is there. I trudge inside, expecting to find a video game session in progress. But when I’m kicking off my wet boots in the garage, I overhear a conversation I don’t understand.
“Yes! Move that five over the center line. Now divide by… yes! You’re doing great, Coach. Okay—now what’s his jersey number supposed to be?”
“Seven,” Charlie says with a snort. “This isn’t really all that hard.”
I yank open the door, and I find Charlie and Beck sitting at the kitchen table. “Uh, hey,” Beck says. He looks oddly guilty.
“Dad, guess what? I’m almost done.”
“Almost done with…?” I can’t even guess. He can’t mean that damn test—the bane of our existence.
“The math!” Charlie says. “Duh. It’s not that bad. Beck showed me how to do it the hockey way.”
“The…what?” I’m struggling to catch up.
Beck gives me an embarrassed smile. “I just, uh, knew Charlie could do it. With a little change of the coaching strategy.”
